Sometimes when I'm reading,
I'm distracted by the invisible
book underneath the book
I'm actually reading and the problem

is this: it's better. It's like
the superball under the couch
that your fingertips barely brush:
the slightest contact and it's

gone, gliding easily away,
because its form is nearly
perfect, there, a sphere
in the darkness and dust.

You can't get to this book,
so you read the other one,
the actual fabric and paper
tilting in your hand, whose
primary virtue is suggesting
the other, hinting at the unseen

that was whispering something
wonderful into existence
as the pen wrote down slightly
different words, approximations,
compromises, all those choices
that seemed good enough,
maybe even thrilling, at the time.